


To Love and Say Goodbye (and Hello Again)

by Solshine



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Pining, mentions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:30:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solshine/pseuds/Solshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious young man with roses in his hair shows up at the golden trio's activism to recite a poem and disappear again, and it leads to a group of Friends coming to meet for the first time. And as exciting as that is, Courfeyrac just wants the blond to show up for an encore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Love and Say Goodbye (and Hello Again)

**Author's Note:**

> _We the mortals touch the metals,_   
>  _the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,_   
>  _knowing they will go on, inert or burning,_   
>  _and I was discovering, naming all the these things:_   
>  _it was my destiny to love and say goodbye._
> 
>  
> 
> — Pablo Neruda (Still Another Day)

At first it’s just the three of them--Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras. They’ve been friends since high school, and they were collectively voted “most likely to change the world” in their yearbook senior year. They really are kind of the perfect recipe; Courfeyrac cares about people, Combeferre cares about the world, and Enjolras cares about justice. Alone, Combeferre and Enjolras would lose things in the big picture, Courfeyrac and Enjolras would lose their direction, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre would just never get started.

There’s an activist group or two around for them to volunteer at, and they do show up when there’s an event that needs extra hands. But the groups are mostly large charities with their headquarters elsewhere, and they find the regular meetings frustratingly stagnant.

So they do their own thing. “Their own thing” ranges from putting in an evening at a soup kitchen or after school tutoring together, to organizing their own campaigns for this or that cause. Occasionally some friend--usually Courfeyrac’s, Combeferre’s social circle being not great and Enjolras’s even worse--comes along as a favor, but none of them sign on to help paddle the boat upstream with the three of them.

Today, they’re handing out homemade informational fliers with domestic violence statistics and help line numbers in response to a local woman charged with assault when she was clearly acting in self-defense. Enjolras wants to put together a campaign calling for justice for the victim, but they haven’t been able to drum up the interest. 

Not, of course, for lack of Enjolras trying. He’s attempting to give a speech as they hand fliers out, and the guests at the street art festival they’ve picked as their venue do not appreciate it. If their cause were something already getting lots of media attention, or if it were even just a more high profile case, they’d be getting many more takers, even just from people pretending to care. Instead they’re getting a couple smiles of sympathy, some pity listeners, lots of people refusing to make eye contact, and more than a few miffed looks. Because people on the whole are kind of assholes, and Courfeyrac has learned to work around that.

Enjolras, however, does not know how to take it with near so much levelheadedness. The more dirty looks they get, the angrier he becomes, until he’s nearly picking a fight with every passerby. Which isn’t helping with the dirty looks, or their case.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre trade glances. They’re tired of it too, the apathy they meet more often than not, but Enjolras believes so hard that sometimes he’s the irresistible force against the world’s immovable object and Combeferre or Courfeyrac have to intervene just to keep everyone sane.

Enjolras pauses for breath and two people take fliers as they pass, and Courfeyrac is thinking it might be fine when a snooty looking middle aged woman comes by and gives them the dirtiest look of all.

“Can’t you do this somewhere else?” she says. “Everyone here is just trying to have a nice time.”

“We have authorization from both public officials and the administrators of the festival allowing us to be here,” puts in Combeferre quickly, obviously hoping to head this thing off. He is not so lucky. Enjolras’s eyes are already blazing. 

“One in four of women here ‘trying to have a nice time’ have been or will be victims of violence at home,” he spits back at her, “and many more people than that are victims of nonviolent or unreported abuse. People like you, your children, your parents. Your husband,” he adds as a man walks up to press a defensive hand to the woman's shoulder and glare at them.

“Couldn’t you just be here talking about something positive?” says the man, more belligerently than he needs to. “You’re upsetting people.” Courfeyrac looked around, but nobody in eyesight looked particularly upset, just annoyed at most.

“Yes, it’s such a nice day and it’s such a depressing subject,” adds the woman. She’s looking dangerously like she’s about to start wagging a finger at Enjolras, which won’t turn out well.

“We don’t think that enjoying oneself and being aware of the bad things in the world are mutually exclusive,” says Combeferre before Enjolras can open his mouth again.

“And happiness and peace of mind shouldn’t be the sole right of those with the luxury to ignore the dark parts of the world,” puts in Courfeyrac, stepping forward and narrowing his eyes, which is a little more confrontational that Combeferre was aiming for, but this attitude irks Courfeyrac so much. “We’re trying to fix things so that maybe someday everybody can enjoy a nice day and not worry about what’s waiting at home.”

“Well, I don’t think you can fix much with that kind of negativity,” says the woman acidly.

It’s too much for Enjolras. “You favor the ‘sweep it under the rug and smile’ approach then?” he explodes, gesticulating so broadly with his handful of papers that he threatens to throw them to the winds. “No need to address any issue that doesn’t affect you directly, I suppose?”

The man steps in front of the woman. “Don’t speak to my wife like that,” he says, attempting only a little successfully to loom over the only slightly shorter Enjolras.

“No, don’t speak to your wife at all, apparently,” Enjolras growls, which is unnecessary. “Not about anything that’s not pretty and sterile. Just keep things nonthreatening and--”

He is interrupted by a young man dashing through the gathering to leap onto the edge of the flower planter behind them. He has pale ash-blond hair coming free of a messy plait hanging halfway down his back, a wreath of fully blown pink roses around his head, a smear of sky blue around both eyes, a messenger bag with "give peace a chance" written on it in bold letters, and his dress, printed with little multicolored flowers, has a blue plaid work shirt pulled on over it against the spring breeze. It's hard to say how tall he is, towering on the stone landscaping ledge right behind them, but his shoulders are square and his feet wide-planted, and Courfeyrac is holding his breath to look at him even before he opens his mouth and speaks.

"You are going to ask, and where are the lilacs? And the poppy-petalled metaphysics?" he calls out over the crowd of festivalgoers. Most of them have not, up until now, been paying the least bit of attention to the three boys and their fliers or the disagreement. But the new arrival's tone demands as much attention as the roses around his head, and people stop what they're doing to hear what he's saying. The noise around them is already quieting. Courfeyrac glances over to Enjolras. Sure enough, even he looks impressed.

"And the rain repeatedly spattering its words and drilling them full of apertures and birds?" the blond man goes on, voice ringing, accusatory. "I'll tell you all the news."

And he does. 

By the third line there is silence in the crowd right around them. It must be a poem, Courfeyrac figures, because the rhythmic words fall out of his mouth with perfect shape and cadence, like links in a chain. It's something about the beautiful neighborhood in Spain where the author lived; Courfeyrac looks at Combeferre, who is smiling a little and nodding. It must be something he recognizes.

"My house was called the house of flowers, because in every cranny geraniums burst,"declares the man with a lovely smile around his eyes, like he is fondly remembering his old house in Spain, and Courfeyrac can imagine him there, imagine him somehow weaving a wreath out of lipstick red geraniums for his hair instead of pink roses. He calls out greetings to imaginary neighbors, declaims about the glories of an open-air market, and his eyes are wide and shining and fixed on a distant place, a bread vendor, a statue, a crowd of laughing children somewhere, and his voice is far off and rapturous. He pauses, breathless, and Courfeyrac can see it, the bright market, the piles of fish, potatoes, the weather vane in the cold sun.

The man's eyes drop back to the crowd like something heavy falling.

"And one morning all that was burning," he says flatly. Courfeyrac's stomach lurches. "One morning the bonfires leapt out of the earth devouring human beings--and from then on fire, gunpowder from then on, and from then on blood."

The again growing fervency in his voice is anger now, and his hands are not the only ones bunched into fists as he describes guns, warlords, dead children.

_See my dead house,_  
_look at broken Spain:_  
_from every house burning metal flows_  
_instead of flowers,_  
_from every socket of Spain_  
_Spain emerges_  
_and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,_  
_and from every crime bullets are born_  
_which will one day find_  
_the bull's eye of your hearts._

He pauses, and in the pause it feels like he meets every eye in the crowd, one by one. When the man meets his, Courfeyrac can't breathe.

_And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry_  
_speak of dreams and leaves_  
_and the great volcanoes of his native land?_

_Come and see the blood in the streets._  
_Come and see_  
_The blood in the streets._  
_Come and see the blood_  
_In the streets!_

There is silence when he finishes, broken only by a few people applauding who hadn't heard the fight. The man and woman, who stood nailed in place through the young man's recitation, hurry on with no further rebuttal. The blond man, panting a little, pushes a piece of stray hair behind his ear.

Courfeyrac thinks he probably has actual cartoon heart bubbles coming out of the top of his head.

Combeferre, damn him, not paralyzed by the high-speed impact of sudden, crippling true love, is much faster than Courfeyrac. He moves in on the blond just as he gets down from the planter, to thank him and probably talk poetry or something. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are made busy with talking to people drawn by the interesting combination of the poetry recitation and their large "Justice for Marcia Lenox" sign. Courfeyrac ends up talking to a red-headed man with a firm handshake and a warm smile, who takes their literature plus some extra copies to put in the mailboxes of his apartment complex, and gives Courfeyrac his number and name--Feuilly--for "the next time they need help with good work like this."

By the time Feuilly waves goodbye and Courfeyrac turns back around, the poetry guy is gone. Courfeyrac makes a strangled, unhappy noise. Combeferre pauses in his continuing attempts to hand out pamphlets, and even Enjolras looks up from his conversation with a balding young man in a mustard-stained tee shirt.

"Where'd he go?" wails Courfeyrac, scanning the crowd in vain. "With the hair and the eyes and the voice! Where'd he go?!"

"He left," says Combeferre unhelpfully. Then he smiles a little bit. "The hair and the eyes and the voice? Really? He seemed like a little bit of a... free spirit for you."

"I like free spirits!" Courfeyrac protests, pouting.

"I think he means the kind of free sprit that has sex with trees," puts in a dark-haired man Courfeyrac hadn't noticed. On second look, he sees it's one of their pity listeners from before the snide lady arrived.

"I'm pretty sure that's not possible," says Courfeyrac.

"I'm pretty sure you'd be surprised," smirks the man.

Courfeyrac laughs. "I like you. You shall stay." He holds out his hand. "Courfeyrac. And that's Combeferre and Enjolras."

The man shakes it. "Grantaire. But I'm a little concerned here, stay in what sense, exactly? Are you shanghaiing me into your domestic violence campaign? Or perhaps the well-meaning but ill-fated campaign for legal justice against a single inconsequential symptom of a larger problem?" Out of the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac sees Enjolras frown.

Combeferre must see it too, since he cuts in smoothly with "This is just one of the things we've done. We get together to lend help to whatever we can to make the world a better place." Because he's very good, he's now addressing not just Grantaire, but the balding man and whatever passerby will listen. The balding guy seems interested, but Grantaire lifts an incredulous eyebrow.

"Does 'we' mean just you three?" he asks.

"Yeah, but Enjolras is always saying how he wants to start a real group, get some more people involved!" pipes up Courfeyrac. Enjolras's frown deepens, like he's about to object to starting with this guy in particular, but Courfeyrac ignores him.

"I dunno, I'm a busy man," Grantaire says, but he looks amused.

"I'd be interested," says mustard shirt dude.

"Great!" says Enjolras, leaping to action. "Great, yeah, guys, this is Bossuet. Can we get your number?"

"And how about yours, too?" Courfeyrac says to Grantaire, undistracted by Enjolras's apparently preferred candidate. "Come on. We're a fun bunch. Or I'm fun. Combeferre is mostly just smart. And Enjolras is... pretty to look at!"

"You seem very confident of your gaydar," says Grantaire as Enjolras sputters.

"Nah," says Courfeyrac. "But we don't have any women yet so I went with our strengths. Besides, Enjolras's prettiness is objective fact."

Grantaire makes a considering noise as Combeferre smothers a smile. "You're not wrong," says Grantaire in a philosophical tone. Enjolras goes red. "Here." He pulls out a pen and writes his number on the back of the pamphlet he took. He hands it back to Courfeyrac, but directs the wink at Enjolras. "Call me the next time you try to save the world, I guess."

\---

At home that evening, Courfeyrac makes a post on Craigslist missed encounters.

Subj: Neruda at the Arts Festival

You were a blond in a crown of roses who smacked down some haters with modern poetry. I was the guy right in front of you staring with my mouth open and falling desperately in love. You are perfect in every way and I absolutely need your number.

"I looked everywhere in the festival afterward but he wasn't anywhere," Courfeyrac sighs to his roommate, Marius, reading over his shoulder. "Combeferre said his name was Jean, probably, which I don't get, Jean is such a basic name, how can you be unsure if that was it? I asked though and apparently it definitely wasn't Jeanne, he specified his pronouns." He sighs again, theatrically. "I will pine forever if I don't find him."

"If you probably know his name, why not put it in the ad?" suggests Marius.

"That's not how you do these things," Courfeyrac explains patiently.

"Oh." Marius stands looking at the screen a few more seconds. "It seems kind of forward," he says doubtfully. "The ad."

"Well, I'm a forward person, so that's good," says Courfeyrac.

"Yeah, but I mean, like, forceful."

"Forceful is less good," says Courfeyrac. He looks at his ad for a second, and then appends 'if you're okay with that' to the last sentence. "Better?"

"Better," agrees Marius. "But I don't think anybody reads these things."

Courfeyrac makes a fervent wish and hits 'post.' "If anyone would read them," he says, "he would. I'm positive."

 

\---

"I need you to explain poetry to me," Courfeyrac says as he walks into the back room of their favorite cafe. They normally meet just at one of the tables, or at Courf's or Combeferre and Enjolras's apartment, but they have three new people joining them and Enjolras wanted a real meeting. Combeferre and Enjolras are already there, Enjolras busy on his phone and Combeferre reading.

Combeferre doesn't look up from his book. "I'm not helping you with your homework."

"It's not homework, I promise," Courfeyrac pleads sliding in next to him at the table. "It's just for a thing. Please?"

Combeferre sighs and takes off his reading glasses. 

"Is it poetry in general you somehow need explained, or do you have a poem in mind?"

Courfeyrac reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a two inch thick volume, plunking it down on the table. Combeferre picks it up.

"Pablo Neruda?" he reads, raising his eyebrows. "What kind of thing is this for, exactly?"

"Just... a thing," hedges Courfeyrac, rooting intently in his bag. 

"Wait, Neruda... the guy at the arts festival recited Neruda, didn't he? Is this about that?"

Courfeyrac gives up on the pretense of searching his bag. "Please just help me."

Combeferre sighs again and opens the book. He makes occasional thoughtful noises as he flips through.

"Some of it is in Spanish," Courfeyrac points out.

"Yeah, Neruda wrote in Spanish," Combeferre replies. “The English ones are translations. What is it about these you need help with?" Courfeyrac just looks at him helplessly. Combeferre smiles and shakes his head. "I shouldn't be encouraging this."

"You shouldn't," Courfeyrac agrees. "But you're totally gonna because I'm asking you about poetry and this might never happen again."

Combeferre makes another flip through the tome. "Okay, I can't believe I'm saying this, but if you're determined to start with Neruda, you might take a look at his love poetry.”

“Love poetry?”

“There's a couple in here," he says, putting the book down in front of Courfeyrac at a certain page, "but he published a lot of them and people love to select and anthologize them. A lot of people find love poetry more accessible since they feel like they already understand the subject matter." He puts a bookmark in his own book and shuts it. "If you're not stuck on Neruda, though, I've got some books I could loan you. You'd probably like, oh, Dorothy Parker. Maybe Edna St. Vincent Millay. Billy Collins, even, though he's a contemporary." He groans. "God, you'd probably love Ogden Nash."

Courfeyrac leans his chin on his hand. "Why, what're they like?"

"Well, they're humorists. I mean, except Millay? She isn't generally. But I don't know, she makes me think of you. She seemed like she would have been a fun person to know."

"They're funny?" says Courfeyrac doubtfully, as Feuilly comes in and the two of them wave while Enjolras looks up and greets him. "Do they count, though? Like, are they still cool? In poet world?"

Combeferre laughs. "They're great poets, yes. Well, one could argue about Nash," he says, rolling his eyes. “Depending on who you ask, I guess. But Collins was an American poet laureate." Bossuet comes in with another guy Courf hasn't seen before. "I'll bring them to lunch on Thursday."

"Thanks." The last of them, Grantaire, comes in carrying a bottle of beer just as Enjolras is standing up.

"Good evening, everybody. I'm really glad to see you all, this is really great." His eyes are glowing with the sincerity of his words, and it isn't just his friends that find themselves smiling. "We wanted to talk about our participation in the March on Hunger, but I'd also like to address the Marcia Lenox case. I think the additional people can really make a difference."

"Oh yeah, "says Grantaire from the corner, where he has already propped his feet up on another chair. "Seven people is a huge difference from three."

"It's certainly not much more of a difference from six," says Enjolras immediately, pinning Grantaire with a challenging look. Grantaire raises his eyebrows in surprise and hides his grin behind his beer, and Enjolras moves on.

They all talk for an hour, then two, then three, first about their activism plans in a roughly moderator-led way like a meeting, but quickly turning into discussion of the news and swapping of political viewpoints (with a good peppering of cynical input by Grantaire), and then to somewhat more traditional methods of getting to know one another, the tone of the room going from serious and intently believed rhetoric to relaxed talk and laughter.

By the time Feuilly, who had been chatting with Grantaire, goes home begging work in the morning, the rest of them are just sitting sipping their various drinks, listening to Combeferre and Joly (the guy Bossuet brought in, his roommate) trade graduate school stories. Upon Feuilly's absence, Grantaire gets up and comes over too. He stands in front of Enjolras, swishing the last inch of his third beer around in his bottle, waiting, until Enjolras finally looks up.

"So Apollo," says Grantaire with that smirk that never seems to quite come off of his face. "This whole saving the world thing. Is that a full time job? I mean, are we talking every night of the week, or do you get a weekend off sometimes?"

Yep, here it is. Courfeyrac has been waiting for this ever since Grantaire sized up Enjolras at the festival. He shoots a grin at Combeferre who returns it as a well-tamed secret smile.

Enjolras, however, is not smiling. He is actually doing the opposite of smiling.

"Just because you can't find anything better to do with your nights than coming here to laugh at what we believe and want to accomplish doesn't mean that other people can't," he growls. "I honestly don't know why you came at all. We have enough people like you who just take thirty seconds out of their day to laugh when we're out trying to make a difference. You're the first one who showed up especially."

Every face in the room is blinking in surprise, except Combeferre, who closed his eyes halfway through the speech and is now rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

Grantaire's smirk, which only faltered for a moment, is back again, although a little dismayed. "Right," he says. "So that's a 'yes' to the full time thing then. That's cool." He swigs the last big of his beer and lifted a wave to the others assembled at the table. "It's been fun. Same time next week, I think you said?"

"Uh, yeah," says Courfeyrac, still feeling embarrassed for the thickheadedness of his friend, still sorry for Grantaire. 

"Awesome," says Grantaire. "See you all then." He dares a final wink at Enjolras, and then turns and saunters out. 

\---

Thursday at lunch, Combeferre brings him books as promised--although there are definitely more there than Courfeyrac had been led to believe there would be. He eyes the pile doubtfully.

"You won't help me with my homework, but you'll give me homework," he grumbles, picking one up and inspecting the cover. 

Combeferre laughs. "You were the one who wanted to know about poetry," he reminds. "And I started picking things out from my bookshelf and couldn't really decide. You can pick some out and I can take the rest back if you want."

"Nah, I'll take 'em all. Hey, the one I leave behind might be the one with the perfect poem for seducing Probably Jean the rose-bedecked wonder and you are not allowed to make that face because it is your fault that I don't have his for real name and his number already."

"I wasn't making a face," Combeferre says quickly. "And how is it my fault?"

"You grabbed him before I could! And all you managed to do was probably get his name--"

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"--before you let him fly to the wind again. So you are responsible for helping me find him. That's how it works."

There is a pause as Courfeyrac opens one of the books to a random place and starts reading one of the poems. Combeferre looks at him sideways.

"Actually," he says, "it's a long shot, but there's going to be this open mic reading at the Corinthe tonight--"

Courfeyrac holds up a hand. "Stop," he says, looking up from the book. "Stop there. I know what you're about to say. You've got this thing you want to go to, and you don't have anyone to come along for you to yammer at afterward, so you're gonna try to trick me into coming by saying that Probably Jean might be there. And you're not sneaky at all. Only I can pull something like that off."

Combeferre smiles. "It was worth a shot, anyway."

"What time?"

"What?"

"What time?" Courfeyrac repeats. "I don't have class tonight, so I'm good. You gotta pick me up, though."

"You're going to come?" says Combeferre, surprised.

"Of course," Courfeyrac scoffs. "Probably Jean might be there."

\---

He's not there. 

The open mic is by turns fascinating and cringe-worthy, but no matter how Courfeyrac searches the room between readings and spins to look at the door of the bar every time it opens to let someone new in, there is no Probably Jean.

As soon as the last reader finishes, Courfeyrac grabs Combeferre's arm.

"Come on," he says. "We're going to go go talk to that one girl."

"What one girl?" frowns Combeferre. "Did you find a replacement for your Neruda crush already?"

Courfeyrac chooses to ignore that. "The girl who recited the poem about her scary housebreaker boyfriend that I think was probably drawn from life. She was really good."

"She was," Combeferre agrees. "Definitely the best one here tonight."

"And Probably Jean would only be friends with the best poets here," Courfeyrac says, pulling Combeferre over to the bar, where the young woman sits smoking and leaving black lipstick prints on the mouth of a bottle of beer.

"Hey," Courfeyrac says, leaning one elbow on the bar and offering her his other hand, the most charming smile in his repertoire spread across his face. "My name's Courfeyrac."

She looks at him flatly.

"What's yours?" he tries after a moment.

She takes a drag of her cigarette. "I said it before I started," she says. "If you were going to try to sleep with me you could have at least tried to remember it."

"Oh, I'm just here for the poetry," he says. She continues to look at him expressionlessly. After a few seconds of it, he relents, shrugging. "Okay," he says, "and to find this one guy, but I figured that since you were obviously the best one here you'd be most likely to know him because he's amazing."

"I really am just here for the poetry," offers Combeferre from behind Courfeyrac.

She groans, but she's laughing. "You must be talking about Jehan," she says. Courfeyrac shoots an accusing look at Combeferre.

"He seemed under the impression that his name was Jean," Courfeyrac says.

"Well, it is," says Eponine. "Jehan is a nickname." Combeferre returns Courfeyrac's look with one of smug triumph you wouldn't think Combeferre would be capable of. "Did you come to this thing just hoping to find him?" says Eponine. "That's a long shot. You're dedicated, you must have it bad."

Something about the way she says it makes Courfeyrac pause. "Is that a common affliction?"he says casually.

"So common it's starting to get on my unending, saintlike nerves," Éponine answers cheerily. "He goes through boys like potato chips. Not that a girl can't be happy for her friend gettin' some, but he can never seem to find me a man too."

"I can't imagine why you're man-less," says Courfeyrac. "You were so welcoming earlier."

She puts down her beer and pats his arm. "You're not my type, sweetcheeks."

"No, apparently scary housebreakers are your type," he says. Eponine laughs.

"I loved 'Cemetery Boy,' by the way," Combeferre puts in. 

She smiles at him before turning back to Courfeyrac and looking him over. "You're certainly Jehan's type. Okay, gimme your number and I'll see if I can't get it to him. He doesn't come in very often, though," she warns.

Courfeyrac grabs a bar napkin and takes the pen Eponine unclips from a notebook in front of her and hands to him. When he hands it out to her, she just takes the pen, and scribbles a number on a bar napkin of her own.

"Here," she says. "Trade you."

"Thought I wasn't your type?"

"Nope, you're still not," she says, and leers at Combeferre over Courfeyrac's shoulder as she holds the napkin out. "It's for you, Mr. Quiet."

Combeferre blinks like he's waking up. "Oh. Uh. Combeferre. My name is Combeferre, hi."

"Hi, Combeferre," she grins. She waggles the napkin. "You gonna take it or are you hoping I'll beg?"

"Oh! Right." He snatches the napkin hurriedly. "Um, thanks?" Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "I really did like your poetry," Combeferre says. "You've got some beautifully disturbing imagery going, and I can't remember the last time I met a conceit I liked outside of my Brit lit 201anthology."

Eponine takes a pull of her beer and watches him with amusement. "You don't have to charm me, sweetie. You've already got my number."

"No, I--" He's blushing, and Courfeyrac is as amused as Eponine is. "I was going to tell you. Once this guy stopped yammering."

Courfeyrac laughs and holds up his hands. "This guy has officially stopped yammering. You kids have fun."

"Oh, I'd love to have some fun," she smirks, looking at Combeferre again, and then at her watch. "But it's probably time I get home and make sure my little brother hasn't burned the house down." She stands and grabs her jacket from the stool next to her. "Good luck with nabbing the hot item," she says to Courfeyrac, then winks at Combeferre. "And don't lose that," she says, nodding to the napkin in his hand. She stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray, grabs her notebook and pen, and saunters out, pulling her jacket on as she goes.

Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre.

"Dude," he says.

"I think she probably just did it to make a point because you thought she was going to give her number to you," Combeferre says doubtfully.

"No, she did not," says Courfeyrac. "Because that is not a thing people do. Why would that be a thing people did? You're a hot piece of literature enthusiast, just accept it." He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks around the bar. "I'm bushed, let's just go home."

Combeferre nods and follows Courfeyrac out. The two walk in silence for a block or so before Combeferre speaks.

"I take it that, despite appearances, that didn't go well?" he ventures.

"He goes through boys like potato chips!" Courfeyrac bursts unhappily. 

"But your number is on its way to him," says Combeferre.

"But he goes through boys like potato chips!" Courfeyrac howls. "And not just that, you heard what she said. 'You must have it bad.' Not 'You must be crazy thirsty, my friend.' I'm only one of his besotted throngs. The lovelorn probably come from miles to beg her to give him their numbers."

"I think you're exaggerating," says Combeferre.

"I think I'm not! I've managed to fall in love with some sort of beauteous poet fertility god. Are you up on your mythology, man?" he demands hysterically, throwing his arms in the air. "Do you know what happens to mortals who fall in love with gods? They get _screwed._ "

"I thought that was your intention," says Combeferre dryly.

"It was not, you crass boor!" Courfeyrac says, glaring, his arms crossed over his chest. "My intention was to sweep him off his feet and make him fall desperately in love with me and propose to him on a picturesque arch bridge in a Japanese flower garden and get married in a Scottish castle and adopt a dozen babies and live happily ever after!"

If Combeferre has anything to say to this very detailed life plan, he wisely refrains from sharing it. The two reach the bus stop and wait in the evening chill for a minute or two without speaking.

"You know," says Combeferre gently, "You've never even spoke to him. He was very impressive, I know, but... you don't know him at all. Maybe he isn't as perfect as you've built him up to be. Maybe this honestly isn't meant to happen." He shrugs. "Maybe he just isn't the guy for you."

Courfeyrac says nothing. The bus pulls up, and they ride to Courfeyrac's stop in silence.

\---

A couple days later, with no calls and no e-mails, finds Courfeyrac staring morosely at the piles of poetry books on the the table by the couch. He picks up the book of Dorothy Parker. 

_I must go on, till ends my rope,_  
Who from my birth was cursed with hope.  
A heart in half is chaste, archaic;  
But mine resembles a mosaic-  
The thing's become ridiculous!  
Why am I so? Why am I thus? 

He tosses the book across the room and scowls. Then he sighs.

"Combeferre is probably right," he mumbles. "He's probably not as great as I think he is."

At that moment, Marius bursts through the front door--or at least attempts to, thumping against the door ineffectually before having to stop and attempt unlocking it again. Then he bursts through.

"Courfeyrac," he crows, "I'm in love!"

"She's probably not as great as you think she is!" Courfeyrac says. Marius stops on the doorway, deflated."

"I... you... Yes, she is!" he protests weakly.

"How would you know?" Courfeyrac challenges. "You've never even talked to her. You're building her up into something she's not because you want something like what you're imagining so badly!" he says, pointing his finger at his friend, who shrinks away.

"Yeah, but she's... I can tell..." He stops and blinks owlishly. "How did you know I hadn't talked to her?"

Courfeyrac props his chin on his hand, his elbow on the couch arm. "I didn't, I'm projecting. What's she like?"

Marius's beaming smile returns immediately. "She's perfect! She's absolutely everything I've ever dreamed of!"

"Yeah," sighs Courfeyrac. "I know what you mean."

Marius takes a moment from his exultation to look with concern at his roommate. "Did your poetry boy respond to your ad?"

Courfeyrac flops backward across the couch. "No. Nor has he called the number I gave one of his friends to give him. Probably he hates me."

"Probably he hasn't seen the ad," Marius reassures. “And his friend hasn’t seen him yet.”

"Probably he has dozens of better options ready to come running at the twitch of his little finger. It's fine." He folds his hands behind his head. "Tell me about your dream girl."

 

\---

Between classes and Enjolras's rejuvenated enthusiasm for what Grantaire still terms "world saving," there's plenty to do to keep Courfeyrac's attention off of the fact that his phone is still not ringing. 

"I think the best way to approach the Maria Lenox case is by raising awareness, and maybe a letter-writing campaign to the governor," says Enjolras eagerly at the next meeting. The snort from Grantaire's corner is so quickly smothered Courfeyrac thinks it might have actually been involuntary. Enjolras glares over at him and waits for the comment. He waits for a few seconds before Grantaire speaks.

"Well," says Grantaire slowly, "it's only that I'm not sure six letters are gonna do much," almost as though he's reluctant to point it out.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying we'd be the only ones writing. I'm saying that with our increased manpower we could more effectively work to spread the word and get others to join the campaign."

"Oh, good," says Grantaire. Enjolras is just about to move on before he speaks again. "I mean, it's still not going to work."

"And why not?" Enjolras snaps.

"Because letter writing campaigns pretty much never work?" Grantaire shrugs. "I mean, sometimes, if everybody writing has a lot of personal involvement in the stakes. But it's just too much work. Even if you wrote a form letter and handed it out with addressed envelopes for people to put their names to and sign or something, it requires the extra step of the writing and the posting. Nobody will do it" He shrugs again. "I'm just saying," he says to Enjolras's stormy expression. "It's not your best chance."

"I have to agree," says Joly. "It is the constant of humanity that we're terrible at getting paperwork done." 

Enjolras frowns like he's about to say that he doesn't have any problem getting paperwork done, but Feuilly speaks up first.

"What about a petition instead?" he says. "It doesn't have the visual effect of piles of letters, but with luck we can send a pile of names instead. Put it in a letter of our own, send that to the governor."

Grantaire looks like he might have something to say about that plan of action too, but he keeps it to himself, grinning at his beer. The rest of the boys at the meeting are gaining enthusiasm about this plan of action. They're plotting where to go to ask for signatures, when they are all available to meet up, and Enjolras is drawn into the discussion before he can say what he wants to about Grantaire's grin.

\---

They work out their time and place, get the appropriate permissions for soliciting signatures, and set out one bright Tuesday morning to hand out the same literature as they did at the art festival and push clipboards at people. Courfeyrac is wearing his favorite bright blue bowtie and his aviator shades against the sunshine, which he think make him look dashing. 

It's been a week and a half of no call, no e-mail. But if fate is real, a little part of his mind is whispering, Jehan will be here today at this mall. Maybe on his way in to the department store to buy a new flowered dress.

He throws himself into his task with every bit of hope inside of him, clipboard in hand, perfecting his already perfected flirty smile on every passerby just in case. He obtains a record number of signatures for an endeavor like this, as well as three un-asked for phone numbers. 

But there is no Jehan. Of course there isn't. He wasn't really expecting there to be. But still.

Courfeyrac gives up on fate at one o'clock, and goes inside to the food court to meet up with the others for lunch as they'd agreed. Grantaire comes in with someone new, a tall man all lean, tough muscle and a wide grin under an impressive black eye.

"This is Bahorel. As a concerned citizen, I reached out to him as a possible victim of domestic violence," smirks Grantaire, sitting down with the new arrival. "Thank god, it was just a bar fight."

Enjolras, squeezing Italian dressing from a plastic packet onto his salad, looks up and frowns. 

"That's not funny," he says. "There are plenty of men who are victims, and who find it difficult to seek help because their situations are looked upon as impossible or a joke."

Grantaire's smile falters. "Yeah, well," he mumbles, subdued, "he wants to help."

"I've done some activism in my time," says Bahorel loftily, before his smirk returns in double. "By which I mean I've got a habit of punching people who deserve it."

Introductions are made around the food court table. Courfeyrac likes Bahorel. He's one of Courfeyrac's favorite kinds of people, in fact--happy and reckless and easy in his affections, adopting them all pretty instantly. But all the same, Courfeyrac's gaze keeps wandering over the heads of Bahorel and his friends, scanning the crowd.

\---

At two weeks, he gives up for good. He returns his book of Neruda to the library and the rest of the books to Combeferre, who looks at him with sympathy. Courfeyrac holds up a hand to silence him.

"No, you were right. It's just like you said. If it were meant to be, it would have been. I just got all hung up on the idea of a gutsy poetry-reciting social warrior and ended up ahead of myself. Not the first time it's happened, right?" he says, smiling wryly.

Combeferre looks like he really wants to say something, but as Courfeyrac goes off to root in their fridge, he holds his tongue.

\---

Bahorel comes to their next meeting. "Meeting" being a loose term, since despite Bahorel's late appearance, nothing has been called to order and the room is divided up into several different intent conversations. Enjolras and Feuilly, nearby, are talking about the news, and if Enjolras is paying attention at all, he probably thinks that Courfeyrac and Bossuet are too, since there's a paper open in front of them. In reality they're arguing over the Hogwarts placement of historical figures. And they're embroiled in another Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff debate again, so it's completely reasonable that Courfeyrac doesn't notice that Bahorel has brought someone along until he turns around to ask for a final ruling from Combeferre and his eyes fall on the newcomer.

He's not wearing a dress today, but he is wearing a string of pearls that sit just above the collar of his daisy print button-up shirt, and his hair is braided again but this time pinned over his head like a headband.

Courfeyrac makes some very fervent mental apologies to destiny for ever doubting.

He and Bahorel have taken chairs and joined the discussion at another table between Grantaire and Joly. Bahorel's chair is right behind Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac rather frantically taps him on the shoulder.

"Aren't you going to make introductions?" he says, and he is very proud that his voice doesn't squeak.

"Oh, right," says Bahorel, tipping halfway back in his chair. "Of course, how rude of me." He gestures between Jehan and the rest of the room. "Everybody, dude I'm banging. Dude I'm banging, everybody."

"Jehan," adds Jehan, utterly unbothered. "Male pronouns." He dimples as he smiles.

He _dimples._

Courfeyrac is royally screwed.

Enjolras has looked up from his conversation with Feuilly. "Oh, we've met, haven't we? You were at the arts festival."

"You recited Neruda," says Courfeyrac quickly, still definitely not squeaking, just so he can get it out there that he knows it was Neruda.

"I did!" says Jehan with a pleased smile just for Courfeyrac (and okay, possibly also for Pablo Neruda). "'I'm Explaining a Few Things' is kind of one of my personal anthems, I couldn't miss the chance."

"You were great," says Courfeyrac, and he's gushing, he should stop. Except everybody likes to be gushed over, right? Unless they go through boys like potato chips and are maybe tired of gushing. 

"Are there any slightly more formal introductions coming, or...?" says Jehan then, and he's looking around the room and gesturing around the room but his eyes return to Courfeyrac at the end of the trailing sentence and right, Courfeyrac can do this, this is what he's great at.

"Right. That's Enjolras, he's the one with all the ideas," he says, pointing. "And that's Combeferre, he's the one with actual sense." Combeferre smiles and nods in acknowledgement. "I've known those two forever, everybody else is new. This here is Bossuet, he's cool but he has some very mistaken notions about Gryffindor house. That's Joly, his roommate, he's a med student or something, right? And, uh, Feuilly over there, he's got like eighty five jobs so it's hell finding a time he can come to stuff. And that's Grantaire." Grantaire raises his beer. "Mostly his schtick is he drinks and is onery, I think. And I'm Courfeyrac. I'm the cute one." He winks. "Or I was. Now that you've showed up I guess I'm just the funny one."

"That seems like a good note to actually get started on," says Enjolras, and stands up even though everybody can already see and hear him just fine. Courfeyrac quietly chugs his coke in an attempt to restore his hopelessly dry mouth. When the meeting is fully underway and nobody is paying attention to him anymore, he leans over and taps Combeferre on the shoulder.

"Hey. Remember how you said, and then I said, that he probably wasn't as perfect as I thought?" whispers Courfeyrac.

"Yeah?" says Combeferre.

"We were wrong. You were wrong and I was wrong and we were both the wrongest we have ever been."

He manages to not stare at Jehan for the entire meeting, and the staring he does do he thinks is probably subtle. He approaches Bahorel as soon as things are winding down and Jehan is busy across the room talking to Combeferre.

"Hey Bahorel. So are you... y'know, seeing Jehan?"

"What, like dating?" says Bahorel. "Nah, nothing that serious." He smirks at Courfeyrac. "Why, cause you want some of that?"

Maybe he hadn't been as subtle as he'd like. "I do," he says," not seeing the point in denying it. "I definitely, definitely do."

"That's cool," says Bahorel. "What's his name again, over there?" He points to where Joly is inspecting Bossuet's hand which he apparently cut on the broken pieces of his dropped beer bottle.

"Uh, which one?"

"The freckly one, not the bald one."

"Joly," says Courfeyrac. "the med student," he adds helpfully.

"He acts more like a lifeguard. Does he make a habit of that, patching people up?"

"I don't know, I guess?" says Courfeyrac. "Although that might just be because Bossuet seems to ding himself up a lot."

Bahorel seems to think about this. "Right," he says at last, and gets up, but instead of heading over to Joly, he heads toward the door.

"You leaving?" says Courfeyrac in surprise.

"Nope," Bahorel replies. "Just gonna get into a quick bar fight."

"I don't think this is that kind of place," says Courfeyrac, but Bahorel is on his way out.

"Every place is that kind of place," he fires over his shoulder before he disappears through the door. Courfeyrac wonders if that's true, and makes a mental note that if it is, he needs to start hanging out with Bahorel.

Jehan wanders back over to his original table to get his drink, and smiles at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac's stomach flips over once. 

"I might be wrong," he says, "but I think Bahorel is off getting a split lip right now for the express purpose of getting it doctored."

Jehan giggles. "For the cute med student? I believe it. Though he doesn't really need an excuse."

"I can't help but wonder how you two met," says Courfeyrac curiously.

"It was at a concert. Bahorel moshed too hard and bashed his head on the edge of the stage and I dragged him off to the edge to make sure he was okay. So yeah, he's a man of pattern," Jehan smirks. "But we did end up making out for the rest of the concert instead of watching the shitty band so I guess if a strategy works."

"Not really the relationship type?" he says, heart in his throat.

"Oh, I love relationships," says Jehan. "I'm just not in one right now, so..." He shrugs.

"And you find headwounds sexy, huh?" he says.

"Mostly I found his tats sexy," says Jehan. Coufeyrac has never really regretted not having tattoos, but now he regrets it fiercely. He regrets a lot of things right this very second, but one of the big ones was not pumping Eponine for information as to exactly the kind of guys Jehan goes through like potato chips. Are they all like Bahorel, muscly scary dudes with tats and black eyes and weirdly huge hands? Because that is not Courfeyrac. At all. He's starting to feel self conscious about his Chip and Dale Rescue Rangers t-shirt.

The door of the back room opens again, and the sound of heightened commotion outside causes several of the friends to look up. It's Bahorel already, coming back in with a blooming bruise on his jaw and a wide smile showing a smear of blood on his teeth.

" _Oh my god_ ," Joly squawks, jumping up and running over. "What happened? Oh my god, did somebody punch you? Did you bite your lip? Oh my god, that looks like way too much blood. Here, open your mouth, let me see. Do you think you'll need stitches?"

Joly is four inches from Bahorel's face, testing the bruise with his fingers and inspecting for the source of the cut, so he doesn't see the thumbs up that Bahorel flashes Courfeyrac and Jehan. Jehan's laughing and rolling his eyes. 

"Hey, uh..." says Courfeyrac. Jehan looks back at him immediately, eyes bright.

"Hm?" he says.

He is smiling just a little bit and he's wearing some kind of slightly pink lip balm. His skin is really pretty. There is a little bit of loose hair in his eyes. He probably has understood every Neruda poem he has ever read.

Courfeyrac suddenly wonders whether maybe destiny sometimes sets things up that aren't meant to be, just so it can laugh at you when you try.

"Nothing," he says.

\---

Courfeyrac works at a sub sandwich shop. All his friends know this, because Courfeyrac has a standing offer open that if any of them come by to get a sandwich, they get free extra cheese. “To help him stick it to the man,” he says. But he didn’t announce it at the last meeting or anything, so he certainly isn’t expecting, of all people, of all the possible people he could have had to deal with, to see Jehan at work two days later.

“Hello,” smiles Jehan.

"Hi,” gulps Courfeyrac from behind the counter.

Jehan’s shoulders really are kind of broad, Courfeyrac notices. You’d think that it would look weird with his pretty wrap dress because of, like, dumb society things. But it doesn’t. 

“What a coincidence seeing you here,” he manages.

“It’s really not,” says Jehan brightly.

Right. It’s not? It’s not because Jehan was hungry and wanted a sandwich? That’s what that means, right? Or is it not a coincidence because Jehan tracked him down and came to this sandwich place specifically? He stares at Jehan suspiciously, but the other man does not elaborate.

“Would you like extra cheese?” Courfeyrac blurts. “It’s, uh. It’s how I stick it to the man,” he explains at Jehan’s delighted confusion.

“Why not?” Jehan says, eyes twinkling. “And I might as well have a sandwich with it while I’m at it.”

“Oh, right,” says Courfeyrac, mentally smacking himself. “Right, uh, hi, how can I take your order?”

Jehan inspects the menu on the wall behind Courfeyrac. “A meatball sub,” he decides. 

Courfeyrac turns around to get the stuff out to make it, but out of the corner of his eye he sees that Jehan is standing waiting by the counter instead of going to sit down to wait. Courfeyrac runs quickly over everything he could possibly say when he turns around.

He turns around.

“So you’re a poet,” he says, which is pretty much the dumbest thing he could have gone with.

Especially when Jehan raises his eyebrows and says, “Why do you say that?”

Courfeyrac looks back at him blankly, tongs still holding a meatball. He doesn’t… really know why he thinks that. It’s not like Jehan wrote the poem he recited. It’s just kind of an assumption he’s gone on and never questioned. He wants to say “because your friend Éponine said that you came in to the open mics sometimes” but then maybe he just comes to listen and also he doesn’t want to admit at this point that he went to a poetry reading just in hopes of seeing him.

“Well, because… because you act like a poet,” he tries. “And,” he adds, hitting on something and pointing at Jehan with the meatball, “I’ve never met anyone who memorized poetry but didn’t write any of their own!”

Jehan holds up his hands in laughing defense, and Courfeyrac quickly lowers the meatball to the sandwich before he flicks sauce on Jehan’s dress.

“Know many poets, do you?” says Jehan.

“Well, Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac, adding more meatballs and a double handful of mozzarella. He thinks of something else and lights up. “And! And! You said that one poem was your personal anthem, and it’s about writing poetry,” he says triumphantly.

“It could be just a metaphor,” says Jehan.

“Poets use metaphors!” Courfeyrac crows. “Game, set and match.”

Jehan doesn’t say anything, just looks amused. Courfeyrac doesn’t know what else to say, so he wraps the sandwich in paper and pulls off his plastic gloves, since they don’t have a separate cashier in today. He coughs and rather awkwardly names the price, and Jehan pays it with perfect change.

“Anything else?” Jehan asks after he’s zipped up his coin purse. 

Courfeyrac blinks, trying to recall the proper sandwich vending procedure. “Nnnnnope,” he says. “Money, sandwich, I think that’s it, you’re good.”

Jehan smiles quietly and shakes his head. “All right,” he says, takes his sandwich, and leaves. Courfeyrac is left with last rings of the bell on the door, thinking he’s missed something somehow.

 

\---

 

"You're never going to guess what I did today," says Marius, throwing his bookbag into the corner. He looks like a kid who can't wait to tell you that his parents are taking him to Disneyland. Courfeyrac, curled up on the futon with Farmville and ramen, isn't particularly in the mood, but he sighs and humors him anyway.

"What did you do today?"

Marius's smile is floodlight-bright. "I talked to Cosette!" he bursts, squealing a little bit. "The girl I'm in love with, the girl I told you about, that's her name! I talked to her and she really likes me too and she's been waiting for me to talk to her for a week and we're going to go out on Friday!"

Of all the good Marius news Courfeyrac was really not in the mood for, this is far and away the least likely and the least in-the-mood-y. And yet Marius's crazy, puppylike joy is hard to resist. Courfeyrac can't help smiling.

"Hey, good job, man. Is she still perfect now that you've finally talked to her?"

"She's even more perfect, oh god, she's the best, I have no idea why she likes me. Why would she like me?"

"Relax," says Courfeyrac. "You've got a date, that's good news. Don't overthink it."

Marius sighs and nods, running his hand backward through his hair so it stands up weird, still beaming away like the sun.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Oh god, Friday is in four days. I've got to figure out something to wear. I've got to figure out something to say. What do you say on a date?" But he's not really looking for an answer. He's already hurrying off to his room, apparently to pick out an outfit, despite the fact that to Courfeyrac's knowledge he doesn't own more than one pair of jeans and two or three lumpy sweaters, plus an embarrassing horde of giveaway t-shirts.

Probably the fact that Marius has his love life more figured out than Courfeyrac is some sign that it's going to start raining frogs soon. Courfeyrac morosely harvests his angora rabbits.

There's a ding from his facebook as a friend request comes in. He notices the picture before the name, and he would recognize its owner without any name at all. It's an artsy closeup picture of an eye, overexposed, the shine and the highlights all blown out, and he knows the eye immediately.

Courfeyrac freezes with ramen noodles still hanging out of his mouth.

Jehan's probably just adding all the meeting guys. Right. Yeah, of course, that's it. Courfeyrac hits "accept," slurping his noodles up and then wiping broth off of his nose. 

He gets a chat notification pretty much immediately and he swallows the noodles wrong and starts coughing.

 **Jehan:** _hey, eponine says to tell your friend to call her already!!_  
**Jehan:** _also, how are you? :)_

Courfeyrac stares at the messages for a full minute trying to come up with something to say.

**Courfeyrac:** _Im okay hbu_  
**Jehan:** _i'm great!! do you guys have a group or something? it's a little bit hard picking everybody out from your friendslist_

Oh god, he added Courfeyrac first? That doesn't mean anything. That doesn't necessarily mean anything. He wonders with irritation why he's suddenly this spastic about somebody he wanted to smooch. Is this what it's like to be Marius?

**Courfeyrac:** _Try adding Enjolras the only people he has friended are the group people and like his mom or sthg_  
**Courfeyrac:** _Hey sorry I g2g Ill see u at the meeting k_  
**Jehan:** _okay :)_

Courfeyrac sets his chat status to offline and then sits and stares at his contact list like he's expecting it to bite him.

Damnit.

\---

If he'd been able to wait until the meeting, he would have had three whole days to figure things out. But no, Grantaire has to summon them all out for "non-political hanging out and pizza" the next day. It's too soon, he is not ready, he needs moral support if he's going to face his soulmate again this quickly. And Enjolras is going to beg out, because Enjolras always begs out. And Combeferre will probably try to beg out too.

Courfeyrac calls Enjolras. 

"No," says Courfeyrac before Enjolras can say anything. "You are going. I don't care what you have to say about this, I don't care what you usually do for fun. Mostly because this is what you usually do for fun, this is exactly the same as a meeting with less petitions and more food."

"The petitions are the part I do for fun," Enjolras protests. 

"Because you are a sad, sad creature," says Courfeyrac. "I like petitions too but tonight the more important thing is that you need to be there for your best friend in his time of need."

"What's wrong with Combeferre?" says Enjolras.

"Me, I'm the one in need, and you have to come. Tell Combeferre I'm in need and II demand you both to come support me."

"Courfeyrac..." 

"Tell him."

There is the sound of the phone being handed off. "We'll come," says Combeferre's voice.

"Good," says Courfeyrac. "And Jehan says to tell you to call Eponine."

Combeferre is starting to object, but Courfeyrac hangs up. He needs to pick something to wear.

\---

With Enjolras and Combeferre appropriately strong-armed, everybody from the meetings is there, with the exception of Feuilly, who has work in the morning. Grantaire summons them to a pizza place and arcade, to Courfeyrac's surprise (he hadn't known Grantaire long, but he was definitely expecting a bar) and to Enjolras's horror (even more noise and chaos than there would have been at a bar). Everyone else seems to enjoy themselves immensely--even Courfeyrac, faced with Jehan with baby's breath in his hair and Bahorel and Joly making out behind the strength test. 

Grantaire, funnily enough, though he appears to be having fun, doesn't act entirely present. While Enjolras follows the little knot of friends awkwardly around the noisy arcade, Grantaire plays button-smash chance games and laughs loudly, but in between laughs his eyes keep going back to Enjolras's discomfort for some reason.

Just kidding. Everyone knows the reason. 

Courfeyrac is standing in front of the basketball game, tickets in hand, watching Grantaire watch Enjolras, and doesn't hear Jehan come up next to him.

"You look like you have a melancholy," says Jehan, leaning against the machine. "Do you have a melancholy?" He says it like some combination of "Do you have cancer" and "Do you have a winning lottery ticket" and he's smiling a sly, secretive you-can-tell-me kind of smile. Courfeyrac can't help but answer.

"Yeah," he admits.

"Oooh," says Jehan, pleased. "What kind of melancholy?"

Jehan's lips part around his smile and he's just a little bit snaggletoothed. It's perfect in his face, so that Coufeyrac feels certain that if his teeth were perfectly straight it would look like something was missing. Courfeyrac's heart hammers hard twice, thump thump. And maybe the clatter and clamor of the arcade games and the shouts and laughter all around them make Enjolras uncomfortable, but they put Courfeyrac right in his element.

So he says, "Unrequited love."

Jehan's eyes light up. " _Oooooooohhh,_ " he says with relish. "That's a good one." He tucks one arm across his body and props his other elbow on it, resting his chin in his hand thoughtfully. "Now," he says, "the question is, is it the tragic kind where you've told the object of your affections how you feel and they don't reciprocate? Or is it the stupid kind, where you haven't said anything?"

Courfeyrac is shocked out of his nervousness and into sputtering self-defense. "It's not-- It's not stupid! It's completely reasonable to be melancholy about not being brave enough to say something!"

Jehan rolls his eyes. "It's reasonable to be melancholy about it, sure, but it's not reasonable to do it. Bottling things up"--he pauses to glance meaningfully over at Grantaire--"is unhealthy."

Coufeyrac chuckles. "You've noticed?"

Jehan responds to that with a withering look. "Why yes, since I am not, in fact, an infant child, I have noticed. But it's good to know you think I am both deaf and blind to the world around me, that's what a poet really likes to hear." 

Courfeyrac grins. "I knew you were a poet!" 

"Yes, points to you," says Jehan dryly. "Come on, what would it take to make you bite the bullet?"

Absolutely nothing. Absolutely everything. Courfeyrac's eyes fall on Grantaire, hand hovering over the button on a 'stop the flashing light' game, but whose attention is on Enjolras frowning over Bossuet's shoulder at a racing game. Courfeyrac nods at him.

"I'll ask the secret object of my affections out," he says, "when he does."

Jehan raises his eyebrows, and Coufeyrac raises his chin. What's he's not expecting is for Jehan to turn on his heel and walk over to Grantaire.

They're too far away and the arcade is too noisy for Courfeyrac to overhear, but as Jehan continues to talk, Grantaire first looks amused, then shocked, then angry. He keeps shaking his head, and Courfeyrac's starting to feel bad about siccing Jehan on him. 

And then Jehan says something else, and Grantaire pauses a moment. He looks hard at Jehan, like he's trying to judge the man's sincerity. Then he looks terrified. Courfeyrac is never going to make Jehan mad for any reason, he decides there and then.

Grantaire is coming over. 

Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras, but Enjolras is busy silently judging Bossuet for shoving more quarters into his racing game, and doesn't notice Grantaire's grimly determined approach. Grantaire passes Courfeyrac on the way to Enjolras, and leans over to mutter something as he goes by.

"I had better get a hell of a toast at your sickeningly adorable wedding," he says, and then is past before Courfeyrac can process that. 

He taps Enjolras on the shoulder. Enjolras looks up.

"Hey," says Grantaire. 

Nobody is watching Bossuet skidding off the road into the spike pit anymore. Grantaire firmly does not meet the eyes of his audience, does not even act like he knows that they're there. He only looks directly at Enjolras.

"So this whole saving the world thing," he says with forced casualness. "Is it a full time job? Like, every night of the week, or do you get a weekend off sometimes?"

Enjolras looks annoyed, and Courfeyrac can see Grantaire wilt a little bit, even if Enjolras can't see it. 

"I'm having a night off right now, as you're perfectly aware, even though--"He is cut off by Combeferre's elbow in his ribs. Enjolras rubbed his side and glanced over at Combeferre's warning expression. He seems to reassess the situation, run back over Grantaire's words in his head. "You've already asked me that once before," he says, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah, I did," Grantaire agrees. "But the conversation didn't go exactly the way I pictured it, before, so I'm trying again."

All the friends hold their breath as they wait for Enjolras to work this out.

"How did you plan for it to go?" he says at last, slowly, suspiciously. Grantaire clears his throat.

"Uh, well. I would say that, and then you would say something like 'I have a free night on Saturday, as a matter of fact,' and I would say 'Cool, do you wanna get burgers' or something, and you'd say 'I can meet you at six.'" He is doing a very good job of not acting horribly nervous.

There is another pause while Enjolras works on this statement too, his eyes squinted at Grantaire in focus. The lightbulb moment, when it comes, is picture perfect.

"Burgers?" he says faintly. He looks like he's going over the last three weeks in his head, and like probably feels very stupid. Courfeyrac certainly hopes he feels very stupid.

To someone who hadn't known Enjolras for years, though, the expression on his face likely looks very blank and unreassuring. Grantaire, at least, seems unreassured.

"Yeah," he says.

A beat. 

"I'm a vegetarian," Enjolars says slowly, and Grantaire immediately takes a step backward, his quickly pasted-on smile crooked and dismayed.

"Right," he says. "Of course you are." He looks up from Enjolras at last, like he's just noticed all the others, standing around watching with wide eyes. "Well, it's been a fun evening, but--"

"I know a good pita sandwich place," says Enjolras. "Unless you're determined about the burgers."

Now it's Grantaire's turn for a moment of comprehension. His smile quickly becomes wider and more genuine.

"No, um. Pita sandwiches sound great," he says.

"Great," Enjolras echoes.

Thier friends are silent around them. 

Enjolras glances around. It's hard to tell in the dim of the arcade but it looks like he's going a little red. Grantaire certainly is. "Uh, I've had kind of my arcade fill, I was about to go back to the salad bar," he says. "Do you want to--? I mean, I guess we've never really talked," and Courfeyrac could swear it was actually sheepish.

"Yeah," says Grantaire immediately. He is distinctly beet-colored as they excuse themselves. "Politics-free night though, remember," he reminds as they're walking away. After a pause, the others look at each other, elect not to say anything, and then go back to their games and conversations.

Well, that was the cutest goddamn thing Courfeyrac has ever seen.

Jehan apparently thinks so, too. His eyes are shining as he comes back to lean against the basketball machine.

"As long as they don't kill each other before we leave, you have done a great thing," says Courfeyerac. "Enjolras hasn't been on a date since high school." He narrows his eyes. "How did you do it? I was sure Grantaire had pretty much made up his mind."

"I un-made it up," Jehan says lightly.

"But what did you _say._ "

"I told him what I told you, that it was unhealthy to keep these things bottled up, and that you and I had an agreement."

"Uh-huh. And then you said...?" says Courfeyrac, since he knows that clearly hadn't done the job first try.

"And then I said that if he didn't tell Enjolras, I'd tell him for him."

Judging from his own experience, Courfeyrac isn't sure whether that was a generous offer or a dire threat, but it clearly hadn't worked either way. "And then you said?"

"And then I said that if he didn't, I'd tell Enjolras and I'd break one of Grantaire's fingers, he got to pick which one."

Courfeyrac boggles. "You what?"

"Feelings aren't for wusses," Jehan says serenely. He folds his arms over his chest. "Now. Your turn."

"My turn to what, get my finger broken?" Courfeyrac squawks.

"Your turn to ask your crush out," says Jehan. "Grantaire did it, now you."

"Right," says Courfeyrac. He stares at said crazy, beautiful, finger-breaking crush, and swallows. "I, uh, I'll ask him the next time I see him. Promise."

Jehan looks deeply unimpressed. "No time like the present," he says.

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. He holds it. Jehan is waiting, watching him, eyebrows raised expectantly. His stomach does that flip-flop thing again. Courfeyrac lets the breath out in a gust.

"How long have you known?" he says.

"Since the day after the arts festival," he says. "Do I look like the kind of person who doesn't check the craigslist missed connections regularly?"

"But... but you never answered!" Courfeyrac whimpers. Jehan is smiling.

"No," he says. "I prefer to let destiny set these things up."

"I bet your friend Eponine totally gave you my number too, didn't she?" Courfeyrac demands. 

"The napkin is on my bulletin board," says Jehan, dimpling. 

"And you stalked me at work!" Courfeyrac cries, pointing accusingly.

"Combeferre mentioned where you worked." Jehan laughs. "I was giving you another opportunity to ask me out, since you chickened at the meeting. You still haven't done it, by the way. Would it make you more comfortable if I called?" He's actually pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"No, no," says Courfeyrac quickly. "Just, um, gimme a second." He takes that breath again. Jehan waits. "...You're really amazing," he says. Jehan's dimples deepen. "And I was wondering if you... if you wanted to eat... burgers?"

Jehan laughs. "I'd love burgers," he says. 

Courfeyrac pauses. "Wait, is this a making-out-post-headwound thing we're looking at, or--?"

"Burgers is a date," Jehan points out with a grin. "Unless, of course, it's a euphemism for something, which is cool. But I'm hoping for a date too."

Courfeyrac relaxes. "Okay, good." He looks around. "I'd suggest the salad bar but I imagine it's gonna be a little crowded." He grins back at Jehan. "How about a skeeball match?" he says, and winks. "Winner gets a kiss."

Jehan laughs again. "I'll take that bet," he says, and wraps a hand around Courfeyrac's to pull him toward the skeeball game. "I hear there's a nice spot behind the strength test."

Destiny is an underrated concept, really, thinks Courfeyrac.


End file.
